Enemy Mine
by Blade Redwind
Summary: "Make me what I was," he'd said. And the demon did; only, he didn't expect those words to send him to his past. Unfortunately for Whistler, this meant enlisting a certain Slayer to retrieve him. In the end, Buffy found herself in for more than she bargained for. Dressing as a man was the least of her problems.
1. Chapter One

**Notes For Readers:**This story is set post Grave (season 6); one month after it. (So, late June.) Giles and Willow are in England, Xander is still in Sunnydale with Buffy and Dawn (Dawn is in summer school). Anya remains a Vengeance Demon.

This is a story I did back in 2004; then it was titled Forbidden, but this title feels more appropriate. It was never finished because I moved around a lot for a few years after that. However, after a resurgence of my own interest in Buffy, I've decided I'd like to rewrite this fic and repost it. Because this story is pre season seven there are some elements that will not be as they are known in that season. To put it plainly—parts of Spike's past, especially those involving his family and his mother.

**Note For My Naruto/Regular Readers: **I haven't forgotten about NGD or Nightingale, or for that matter Right Kind of Wrong. This story is practically written; it just needed a brush up. I'll do my best to get an update in for NGD soon. It also helps those stories are essentially done. So, no throwing things at me, yes?

**Summary:** "Make me what I was," he'd said. And the demon did; only, he didn't expect those words to send him to his past. Unfortunately for Whistler, this meant enlisting a certain Slayer to retrieve him. In the end, Buffy found herself in for more than she bargained for. Dressing as a man was the least of her problems.

* * *

"The day you figure out what you want, there'll be a bloody parade."

And then she was singing, her voice betraying her; it seemed his had betrayed him as well, revealing more and more. And they drew closer, and god she really knew what she wanted; to simply _feel_. His lips met hers; she shut he world out and let herself drown in him. All that pain, agony, everything that pricked and pricked all damn day vanished. There was no Willow ripping her away from solace; there was no Xander deciding what was right in the world; there was… peace and mutual surrender.

She was the closest to heaven he'd ever get, her golden hair, her hazel eyes and her small body moving against his. He'd dreamed of this moment, the moment when he'd have her in his solid embrace, her warmth radiating into him. It was always just too damned to good to even hope for; until now he only could look at it from afar. But, that had all changed when she'd placed her lips on his, ground her hips against his own, _showing_ him what he did to her and finding out exactly what she did to him.

But then she was pushing him out of her arms, crying out as if in pain as her wide hazel eyes stared at him. They seemed brimmed with tears. He could nothing but stare at her, unformed words catching in his throat.

Like a wounded animal, she whispered only loud enough for him to hear, "I can't." Then she was running, turning from him, her boots hitting the hard asphalt as she ran out of the alley.

He felt his heart strain, tighten, and yet at the same time feel as if he gained ground. Still, he couldn't stop his body as he fell to his knees, nor could he stop that damning feeling inside that no matter how much he tried to convince himself that his love was enough for the both of them—it'd simply never be enough for him.

#

Buffy sat cold and detached on the hard floor of the bathroom, the tears begging to course down her face. _Can't blame him_, she told herself. He had tried to rape her, but she _couldn't_ blame him. It wasn't her fault either, but it hurt so much. The feeling twisted in her gut, turning and pulling. Oh, how she'd wanted to respond, _wanted_ to give in, to_ feel_. And then the tears came earnest. _Forbidden,_ her mind whispered. She wasn't allowed to touch him, but she had. She wasn't allowed to want his to make it all go away—the endless pain, but she did. She wasn't suppose to want to run after him—to sink into him, but... oh how she wished she could… how she wished she could…

#

He endured the trials, felt the burn and the harsh torment. He ignored the ongoing spray of red, ignored the searing ache, and the symphony of death that bored a fire in his veins. His face was a cold mask covered in sweat and blood; twisted and torn was his unbeating heart from a love that would never be returned. He pushed those thoughts back, concentrating as he waited for his greatest desire to be granted.

Finally, the Demon's spoke. The return of his _soul_? Bloody hell! A lifetime of pain could never be compared to the burn that coursed through him now, frying his blood and his insides, making him feel aflame. He was dying; he had to be. The world around him hazed, faded and became black. Darkness remained and he felt as if he was moving backwards, backwards somewhere in that frame of mind… _to what was_…

* * *

**Enemy Mine**  
Chapter One

"Careful… the ink's still wet… please, It's not finished," he pleaded among his audience, his voice entirely too soft. His cold blue depths were glazed over beneath a glass framework that was his spectacles. Silently his mind screamed he wanted to kill the man for touching his precious poem. It wasn't hi; it wasn't ready. Therefore he had no right to lay so much as a finger on his heart's terrible writings. Granted, they were terrible, but they were his.

"Don't be shy," the Lord Newdred replied with a sneering smile. His eyes went down to the paper, ready to read what young William had written. "My heart expands, 'tis grown a bulge in it, inspired by your beauty—effulgent." He paused a moment, looking at William. "Effulgent?"

There was laughter among that audience, looming out and crowding his heart. It wasn't so much he was being laughed at; it was that he was being laughed at for his writing. He snatched the paper from Lord Newdred's hands then stormed off after Cicely. He'd watched her, tried to impress her. He ignored the laughter about him, barely hearing their taunting words.

"That's actually one of his better compositions," one man said.

More laughter from a woman as she spoke up, "_Have you heard_? They call him William the Bloody because of his bloody awful poetry!"

"It suits him," he heard Newdred reply, "I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that _awful_ stuff." There was more laughter, but it seemed to fade away as he approached the woman who held his heart. Pity she probably didn't know it yet.

She seemed a goddess as she sat by the window, her eyes gazing out at the night past the veil of soft white lace that was the curtain. Her gown was a lovely cream trimmed in a soft violet. She wasn't elaborated in her style, but all the more demure and simply beautiful by what she wore. Her hair, those pretty brown silk tresses placed in perfect curls, fell from the style it was up in to frame her face in what seemed like feathery kisses. Oh, how he longed to be one of those tresses, to be able to be that close to her face, to touch her soft skin with a bare brush of movement.

He slowly approached, "Cicely?"

She turned to face him, her face captivated in surprise, "Oh, leave me alone." She turned, pulling her fan out and easing the heat of the room away from her face with it.

He turned, moving to sit down, "Oh, their vulgarians. They're not like you and I."

"You and I?" she suddenly paused her fanning, gazing at him as question befell her facial features.

He seemed to grasp for a reply, though, even when his whit jumped to reach his lips, it seemed to fail him with his nervousness.

"I'm going to ask you a very personal question," she said all at once, "And I demand an honest answer." There was a short pause, "Do you understand?"

He simply nodded, his voice failing him still.

She still gave him that questioning gaze. "Your poetry… they're… not written about me are they?"

He paused himself, begging god for strength. "They're about how I feel…" He kept her gaze with amazing composure; his voice was soft, yet full of emotion he held back in great pain.

"Yes…" she said quietly, "But, are they about me?"

He paused again, taking in a small breath through his nose, and holding in his pride, "Every syllable."

"Oh, god!" she said suddenly, her fan moving rapidly as she turned from him to cool herself from what seemed immediate heat.

"Oh, I know…" he said, nearly stuttering in his embarrassment, "It's sudden. And please," his eyes looked down and then back at her, "they're only words. But… the feelings behind them… I love you Cicely." his voice was low, feeling as though his heart was catching in his throat as he tried to display how he felt.

"Please stop," she said more urgency as she turned away from his gaze once more.

"I…" he tried to find the words again. "I know I'm a bad poet, but I'm a good man… all I ask…" once more he was stuttering, "is th-that you try to see me-."

"I do see you," she replied as she turned to face him. "That's the problem." She held his gaze boldly—cruelly. "You're nothing to me, William." She slowly stood before him, gazing down at him as if to make him feel lower than her. "You're beneath me." and then she turned, walking away, leaving not even a second delay to catch the tears that fell from the man now carrying his heart in shattered pieces before him.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

It seemed as if hell had toppled since he left her. Left her battered and torn to cease the bleeding heart she carried within her chest. She tried to put it out of her mind. Their tryst, his words, his very image… she tried to put it somewhere locked away and forget. But, she couldn't, and part of her really didn't want to. Why… why did it have to be so hard? The lights, the objects, every room and every word that passed her ears; every aspect of it hurt. And he had taken that away, for more than those few exhilarating moments that transpired between their bodies… he taken it _all_ away. It was more than his kisses, it was his words; it was more than his body, it was simply there very depths of his eyes. The way he looked at her, flooded her insides with want, stood by her even when she pushed him away. It was ironic, the one man who never seemed to leave her be and love her turned out to be the one she couldn't have. He would say that just being with her was enough, if he could just stand next to her. But, the truth was, it killed her in the same fashion.

_Live,_ he had told her,_ so one of us is living._ But, how could she? She was a shell without him…

"… Buffy…?" she heard a voice, a small voice calling her out of her half slumber. "Buffy… wake up." Someone was shaking her shoulder, attempting to rouse her. "Please, Buffy, you have to wake up…" it called. "You can't keep lying here…"

Dawn's soft jade blue-green eyes gazed down at her sister on the couch. Her hair was uncombed, crumbled and a partially knotted mess in places. Her clothes were possibly two days old and wrinkly. Her eyes looked a little swollen… as if she had been crying. She lay stretched out on the couch, her knees only slightly drawn forward as her forearm appeared to serve as part of the make shift pillow. She didn't look to have any make up on, thank god. It would have been all over her face and the couch.

Dawn shook her again, "Wake up, Buffy," she insisted.

Buffy finally rolled over and muffled a groan into the rolled up blanket between her arm and her head. It took her a few moments, but she slowly sat up and pushed the short strands of blonde from her eyes. She yawned and gazed up at Dawn, blinking owlishly. "Hm, must be Sunday if you're home." She rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"

Dawn shifted the backpack on her shoulder as she moved to glance down at her watch. "Um, about five PM," she replied. "Have you been sleeping all day?"

Buffy shook her head, causing those short strands to bounce. "Nah, just a few hours… I didn't sleep so well last night." She looked up at her, "How was the weekend at Janice's?"

She smiled, dropped her bag and sat next to her. "Oh, it was good. We went to the mall Friday night; I bought a new skirt. Then, Saturday night we stayed up all night, ate munchies, and watched scary movies. I think we passed out sometime after 10 this morning."

Buffy nodded, and then slowly got up to stretch. "Listen, I'm gonna go get a bath then maybe watch some TV later. Did you wanna hang out?"

Dawn grimaced, "Actually, I have some homework due for English tomorrow. Maybe… next weekend? You known, sister bonding time?"

Buffy smiled, "Sure, don't stay up too late." she murmured as she made her way towards the stairs. She faintly heard Dawn reply, but it was there and gone as if not really there at all. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she made her way into her room. Would it always be this way? Every moment that image of him flitting about her mind like a ghost? Was that the end of it? Nothing but a memory?

She grasped the handle of her door, turned the knob, and slowly opened it. Her room was a tomb, a place to sleep and keep those little things of her. But, it was nothing more than that. Who was she? When did the pain stop? She could try and tell herself she didn't need him, try to convince herself it would wash away with time. She chocked a laugh as she enclosed herself in dark domain. How did one 'get over' heaven? She'd been happy there… no duty, no worry, only the warmth. And then she'd been ripped, pulled and forced back into a life she no longer knew how to function in.

And then… then he'd stepped in, waltzed into her eyes from the door to her home as he'd called out for Dawn, worried about her. She seen it in his, those damning blue depths as he'd gazed up at her. Not as a ghost, but as a man whose only crime was being devoted to her.

And their life from point A to B had been nothing but one dance after another. She refused him; told herself this is the way it had to be. He was a Vampire and she a Slayer. No matter how they tried to pretend it'd only end up tearing apart. It wasn't right to care about him at all, to have feelings for him, and want to let him be the one to take away the empty and fill it with the only joy she had anymore.

She sighed; moving to sit on her bed and gaze out the window, almost half expecting to have him come through it and tell her it'd be all right. It'd be all right just as long as she let him in. Let him hold her, let him touch her, and whisper sweet things in her ear. Let him in to take away her worry, fill her with that sense of completeness.

Eventually, she curled up on her side. Hazel depths remained locked on night sky and held it. She sighed and stayed that way until her eyes became heavy and that curtain dropped over them—sending her into slumber.

_She was walking, walking into a barn filled with hay and held together with stone blocks. She could smell animals and hear people talking. It was night; people walked by just beyond an opening. They wore odd clothes and spoke in a distinct dialect she'd heard often enough. She was turning… coming face to face with _him_. He was dressed as he normally was, looked as he normally did, yet his eyes told her he didn't seem altogether himself. "Why are we here?" she found herself asking._

_"I had to go back," he said softly, his cold knowing gaze holding hers._

_"Go back where?" she implored, moving towards him._

_"To what I was."_

_She shook her head, not exactly understanding. She simply asked, "Why?"_

_"Because…," he said, his voice seeming to choke as he fought for the words._

_"Tell me," she begged, taking another step forward and reaching out, only to find him moving back._

_"Because you wouldn't have me as I was," he whispered, his eyes closing shut as he turned his face from her._

_She felt tears prick her eyes, her heart caught in her throat. She tried desperately to tell him what she couldn't admit anywhere else but in her dreams, but the words wouldn't come out. Her lips moved, but he couldn't see that because his eyes were closed._

_"…Buffy…"_

_No, her mind cried out, not _now_!_

_"Buffy…" the voice called._

#

"And I wonder…" a soft feminine voice spoke in a definite Irish accent, "What possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven… and brought this dashing stranger… to tears?"

His cool blues gazed up, not afraid, not surprised, but mesmerized. There before him stood a woman, a lovely woman draped entirely in deep violet fabric that shimmered through black lace. Her hair was pulled back, those long ebony tresses cascading down her back as silk. Her eyes were such a distinct soft brown, like melted chocolate. She looked like a porcelain china doll with her sharp features and elvish face. He finally spoke, his voice hinting irritation, "Nothing. I wish to be left alone." He gazed down a moment.

She stepped forward with the grace that could be compared the swan. "I see… A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strengths… his vision… his _glory_."

He watched as she paused, almost captivated as she came to him.

Her hand came to her stomach, black lace covered hand moving it in a circular motion. "That burning baby fish swimming all around your head—."

He quickly stood as she stepped forward, "Ah, that's quite close enough. I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you." He backed up like a little child even as she continued to advance, kneeling before him under the moonlight shining through the wood paneling.

"Don't need your purse," she mused with a smile. Like a little nymph she gazed up at him. And then she was coming closer still, "You wealth," she explained as her hand touched over his heart, "lies here… and here." Her hand was then placed on the side his head, her cool fingers sending shocks all over his body. "In the spirit… and," her hand went lower…

He suppressed a groan as her small fingers grazed over the material above his crotch; his body reacted instantly.

"…Imagination." she finished. Her gazed moved to his lips as she swayed a bit, "You walk in worlds the others can't possibly begin to imagine."

He gazed down at her beautiful face and lovely long lashes and past into her golden brown depths. He was entranced—entranced by this enthralling woman that the only word he could speak in reply was, "Yes…" And then he blinked, catching his breath and trying to ignore the remnants of the tears he still felt on his face. "I mean n-no. I mean." He swallowed. "Mother's expecting me."

She appeared to ignore his last reply; her hand and fingers softly grasping about the lapels of his shirt and moved it back to expose his neck. "I see what you want," she whispered… "Something glowing and glistening… something…" she paused, releasing his collar and stepping back as her hand closed, her eyes shooting up to gaze into his. "Effulgent."

And then he smiled. "… Effulgent," he barely whispered.

Her eyes continued to stare straight into him as she spoke softly, "Do you want it?"

"Oh yes," he said, a smile touching his lips as expectation and anticipation flooded his veins. "Oh, _god_ yes."

She looked down briefly and a sharp change overcame her features. Quite suddenly, ice blue connected with electric yellow. It was demonic visage that retained a different sort of beauty than before.

He blinked several times, still unafraid, but all at once confused perhaps. Her lips slowly moved to his neck and he cried out in pain as she pierced his flesh and began to drink, pulling them down as the darkness overcame him—sucking him into an abyss.

#

"Buffy!"

She jolted awake, gasping for air. Her chest felt heavy, compressing under a weight as her eyes shot open. Fingers curled into her night shirt just between her breasts and she clenched her jaw shut. Her eyes closed for a brief moment.

"You… alright, Buff?" his quiet voice asked her, hand on her shoulder. "Didn't mean to scare you, but you told me you wanted to wake you up for patrol in case you fell asleep. I tried knocking… but you didn't answer."

She blinked sleep away, and shock. Slowly—wearily—her eyes drew up to Xander. "Thanks. What time is it?"

"About eleven."

"Is Dawn—?"

"She's asleep," he replied as he stepped back to give her space to get out of bed.

"Have you eaten?" She moved around the room and slipped her shoes on as soon as she located them. Weapons… weapons... One of her nightstand drawers was opened and she dug around in it. When had she gotten so behind in cleaning?

"Not dinner. Had to work late."

"There's some leftover's in the fridge from this weekend. You're welcome to them." She slid a stake into her back pocket and a few other sharp items into hidden places. "I'll be back before the sun comes up. Call me if something happens."

"I will." He followed out of her room, down the hall, the stairs, and then to the door. "Be safe."

"I will." She shut the door without another word, although she was quite sure Xander was just staring in the space she'd previously stood in. He was a zombie these days, not too unlike herself. But, this time she couldn't say it wasn't his fault. If Anya wasn't anywhere nearby… well… he had no one to blame but himself.

They'd all done a lot of wrong; made a lot of bad choices. And now… they were all paying for it. If anyone paid the worst though, it was Willow. Tara didn't deserve it, but something had to give. Buffy knew that now. Something _always _had to give. You couldn't keep cutting the only rope holding you in the air before you were falling back into the pit.

Sometimes you had to hit rock bottom before you could crawl your damn self back to the light.

She knew.

The cemetery was quiet… boring almost. It had been for a while… off and on. Ever since Willow's Dark Awakening the demon population had appeared to come only in spurts. Hardly any regular quota to fill. It made her restless and gave her less and less time to keep on the top of her game. It's not like she had anyone spare around to give her work out; not like before…

_Shut up_.

She gave a sigh and knelt in front of a fresh grave. The name on the tombstone felt familiar. Ah… that right. She'd looked into the obits today. No way to know though. Without Willow she couldn't really dig into the morgue records on her own and find out the gory details. Who knew though; maybe she'd get lucky.

"You'll be waiting for a while."

She stood and turned, reaching for her stake.

He smiled. "Some things never change, huh?"

"Whistler."


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

His look hadn't changed at all, she assessed with hands on her hips. Still the same fedora and bad taste in suits. He was somewhere between flashy and morose, as if caught between the forties and the eighties.

"Let me guess… some new apocalypse I have to take care of?"

"Not quite." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, thick cigar.

Her brow rose. "It's never a social call with you."

He lit up, creating small plumes of smoke. The tip of his cigar glowed like a light in the darkness. He tossed the match and dug one hand into his pocket. "Care for a drink, Buffy?"

She sighed a crossed her arms over her chest. "I'd prefer you to get right to point. I need to patrol. You know, sacred duty and all," she bit off as she waved a hand flippantly.

He chuckled. "Don't worry. It's a dead night—literally. PTB pulled a few strings to give me some time to talk to you. This is more important anyway.

"So, drink?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"You always have a choice. You should know that better than anyone."

She regarded him for a long moment, staring as that cloud siphoned in the evening breeze—slowly—and away from his face. She shifted weight from one foot to the other. A sigh was repressed and she narrowed her eyes on him. "Free night, you said?"

"Yup."

"You're buying."

He grinned. "That's a given." He snapped his fingers; quite suddenly the graveyard was gone and replaced with a bar.

Buffy blinked and looked around as she dropped her arms. "Where…?" It was plush, quiet, and void of any life aside from her and Whistler. Lighting was low and style was modern. Sleek black, maroons, and russet tones covered the room in a dim atmosphere. In the background she could hear the subtle tune of jazz music.

"Take a seat."

She turned swiftly in the direction of the bar itself. He was behind it, cleaning a glass and still smoking a cigar.

"Want a drink, don't you? Even the Slayer deserves a break."

"I had one. Once." She stepped forward and slid into one of the velvet stools. Her feet came to rest on one of the rungs and she leaned forward, forearms resting on the black counter.

"Ah… yeah…" he trailed off, pausing his cleaning. He set down the glass and pulled the cigar out of his mouth. "Well… you can't blame the higher up for that one. That was your nosey friends."

To this Buffy said nothing.

"But, wasn't all bad, right?

"What you want, Whistler?"

He sighed. "First, what are you drinking?"

"Cosmo."

He raised a brow.

"What?"

"Nothing," he murmured before going about making her request. "We've got a problem. And it's not something we can take care of easily."

"You sure this isn't an apocalypse? It's starting to sound like one."

"I'm _sure_." He began shaking a silver canister. As he poured her red drink he went on, "Spike's been missing for about how long? A month?"

She looked down as he set the drink in front of her. "About that, yeah." Her fingers curled around it. "Why? What does this have to do with him?" She took a sip.

"Kind of everything," he admitted as he popped the cap on a beer. He tapped ash off his cigar, inhaled, and then expelled smoke. Fragments of it continued to escape as he spoke again. "When he realized what he'd tried to do to you he went to Africa. Tried to fix things; tried to get himself a soul."

"_What?_"

He took a swig of his beer and nodded. "Yup, hard to believe, huh?"

_No…_she wanted to say. "…I just didn't think you could go… get one." When Angel lost his it was such a pain in the ass to get it replaced.

"It wasn't easy." He smirked, smile crooked. "Went through fire and brimstone for it."

"So what's the problem?"

"Problem was the way he worded it. 'Make me what I was,' he said. Demon sent him back to the night he was first sired—back into William's body. Know the problem with that? Lots. Lots of supernatural ramifications. It's one thing to go visit; it's another to stay and be unaware of it. So many things could go wrong."

"So just bring him back."

"Not our job."

"And it's mine?"

He sighed. "You know, I thought you gave a damn. Don't you? After all the dust settles, can you say _he_ deserves it?"

_If it keeps him away from me… somehow… yes._ She frowned.

"Look, even if you don't give a damn about him this could have seriously earthly plane repercussions. People could die. People like your sister, your friends."

She was frowning still, her grip almost tightening around her drink. The glass lifted to her lips and she took a sip. Her tongue darted out and licked her lips. "So, what do you plan on doing? Dumping me in the middle of Victorian England?"

Whistler looked relieved. He would be; he lived in this plane too—mostly. "No, we've got a contact set up for you. A Watcher who's not too involved with the council. He'll set you up with whatever you need and help you get the job done."

"What's the end goal here? If their one person now?"

"They need to be separated. Christopher will help with that—your contact."

She rolled her eyes. "That's magic stuff. I'm not—."

"He's been fused by magic. You're the key to breaking that."

"Why?"

"He went to get the soul for you. It's all about intention—we know that."

She let what he was really saying settle on her. He knew, even if she wouldn't admit it out loud, even if she wouldn't say it to herself—voice it to herself. He knew just as well and Anya and Tara probably had known. Why couldn't she just say it?

She closed her eyes and drained her drink. "I'll need to bring a few things. Then you can send me off—or whatever."

#

"_Tell me you love me."_

"_I love you. You know I do."_

"_Tell me you want me."_

"_I want you…"_

He woke with a slow crawl, latent voices consuming his mind in the form of a hazy afterthought. He coughed and then inhaled the scent of musk, manure, and hay. Loud whistles and people talking in a chatter of voices sounded in the distance.

Slowly, his eye opened; blue depths blinked out of the fog and looked up. He tried to remember how he'd gotten here—in a stable of all places. Had he fallen asleep…? Gradually, he pulled himself up and groaned. There was a pain in his neck, piercing just a moment. He reached up, rubbing it and felt crust.

"_Do you want it?"_

He blinked.

Had it been a dream? That woman… He swallowed as he recalled it, but more of last night. Cicely and her refusal; that rippled through his mind soundly,cutting the broken bits of his heart further.

He looked down at his hand. Crusted blood…? No. Probably dirt. He'd probably hit his neck… or… who knew.

"You alright?"

He looked up at the man addressing him—a servant. More than likely a worker in the stables. "Y-yes, fine. Thank you." He stood up.

"Can I call you a cab, My Lord?" The look in his brown eyes said he knew William was lost, or just needed to get home.

"Yes, please," he found himself saying as he dusted himself off.

He nodded. "Right away."

William headed to the entrance, still pulling hay from his jacket and pants. Nimble fingers threaded through his hair, shaking more of it off. He didn't stand there long, though it felt that way as he continued to contemplate the previous evening. No, soon enough he found himself giving directions to his home and climbing into the hansom cab.

The day was bright—too bright, he realized. The sun felt as though there was a fire on his eyes and he had to shut them, exhaling. Had he gotten foxed as well? Perhaps he should have; perhaps he should have gone home and to his room and gotten completely foxed just before passing out in his favorite reading chair. Or maybe in his study. If he locked it up surely his mother would leave him be. Reggie might have been tempted to barge in; he really wanted to know who taught her how to pick a lock.

What had he done wrong? No, he knew. Money. It always came back to money. Money his father hadn't left for them; money he didn't know how to procure to fix it all; money he didn't have to buy his sister better clothes for her coming out.

Always about money.

He wasn't debonair enough either; no charisma; never the right words. Too much to give and not enough to bloody well fix anything.

Was he cursing now? No, couldn't be. He didn't do that. Where _had_ it come from?

The hansom cab came to a lurch, stopping. He looked over and realized they'd stopped at his residence.

"Thank you," he said as he got out and paid the driver. Less than five steps later and he was in his home, one of the few things left to him by his late father.

"Welcome home, My Lord."

"Morning, Winston. How are you?" he asked as the footman took his jacket. "You can take that to my room. I feel suffocated."

"Very well, My Lord. And good. Very good." He folded the jacket over his arm. "Your sister is in residence. She instructed me to let you know you should find her in the music room. And," he went on, "Your mother was quite distraught that you didn't come home last night. Very worried you'd been caught up in that murder business going around London."

"Thank you for telling me. Please let her know I'm safe. I just needed the night to think some things through. I'll go see Lilith now."

Winston nodded as he moved up the flight of stairs.

His hand settled on the dark stained wood railing and slid along it as he took one step at a time. As he came to the top where the hallway split to the right and left he heard music, a piano. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth before he went left and came to an open door at the end.

He stopped in the doorway, one hand on the frame as he stared at her. Blue eyes, much like his own, were closed to the world as she swayed with the music. Nimble digits danced over the keys. Her long brown hair was unbound scandalously and rolling over her shoulders in waves and curls. Flints of gold spun through it.

She was dressed mutely in pastel blue; robin's egg almost. The day dress gathered around in the front of her hips and coiled in the back in a simple way. The sleeves were closed around her wrists, and the top half of it had a high collar. It was a swath of thin cotton and lace and so utterly Lilith.

Smoothly, she finished the piece. A soft exhale left her and she opened her eyes. A second or two passed by before she looked over and caught sight of him watching her. She smiled, the brightness of it filling the room. "Will," she whispered happily. And then, rather quickly, she frowned and her eyes narrowed. "What wrong…? Will?"

He stepped forward to her open arms, joining her on the piano and bench. He leaned on her shoulder, throat caught with tears. He didn't want to… God he didn't. _So weak_. His chest hurt with it, hurt much more than it had last night. He could still see her, standing over him and telling with some sense of pity that he was beneath her.

Men shouldn't cry. Wasn't right. Perhaps at a funeral, perhaps in the quiet of a man's own space… but certainly not in front of someone. Not his sister.

"Emotion, Will, is not a sign of weakness. Neither are tears," she whispered as she stroked his hair.

She could always see right through him—Lilith. He might have been first born, but in many ways she was so much stronger than him. And he did—let it out, that is. Warm trails of it colored his face in a stain and soaked his lashes. It gathered at the corners of his eyes and fell. A sort of congestion gathered in his nose and he felt her pressing a handkerchief to his hand. He took it and wiped, trying not to blow.

"Better?" she whispered.

He nodded and slowly pulled away from her.

"Cicely?"

"She refused me," he replied softly, staring down at the keys. "Said I was beneath her."

Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh… Will."

He smiled bitterly, voice quivering a little. "I'll have to learn to move on."

She didn't say anything, wasn't really sure if she should. He looked broken and a little disoriented. His eyes—wait. She narrowed hers. "Will… where are your glasses?"

He blinked and reached up, touching his face. Surprise overcame him. "I don't know. I-I.. I thought I had them." He frowned. "I should have noticed. Usually I can't see a thing…" He paused and looked at her. "I can see."

"Can you?" she said with a little awe. "Odd. You've always had trouble…"

"Not now."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Now she smiled. "Some things just can't be explained, Will. Maybe this is one of them. Perhaps a little miracle, right?"

"Maybe…" he allowed. "Lilith?" he asked, his mind growing distant.

"Yes?"

"Do you think my poetry is bad?"

She hesitated, considering very carefully _how_ to word her response. He looked up at her, cold blue eyes reaching for her answer—for hope. She sighed. "Your poetry is not bad, Will. Sometimes I see you saying things that could be poetry, beautiful words. You just… haven't realized that lovely thoughts aren't forced, but come from the heart."

He nodded and stood up.

"Oh wait, I have one more thing to talk to you about, brother."

He turned back to her and a brow rose questioningly.

"Something you _need_ to know. But, don't repeat it to mother. And especially not Reggie; not with her coming out party tonight."

"Alright…"

"How long were you at that party last night before you left?"

"And hour. Why?"

"Some time after you left there was… well." She frowned and clutched her hand to her chest. "Everyone who'd remained behind was murdered—badly. The police are reporting it was awful. One of the worst crime scenes since Jack the Ripper.

"None of the servants were injured. But they have no memory of what happened. All of them were tied up and locked away in the cellar."

He blinked, looking utterly… stupefied. Shocked. "Cicely?"

"I don't know. I get my information from… crude means. Not the morning news. But, it might be best to slip that section out. No need to for mother to worry over something that you were perfectly safe from. I imagine it will be in tomorrow's paper."

He nodded, heart tight and twisting painfully.

"I can't guarantee she's alright, Will. But, I'm sure you can ask around or check her normal haunts. You know how her mother likes to go to stores on Saturday afternoons before evening events. Try there maybe? Or send one of the maids. Didn't Emily once work for them?"

He nodded. "I'll do that after I speak to mother."

"Will!"

He turned again and looked at her.

She smiled. "Just because one road leads to a dead end, it doesn't mean you can't turn around and take another."

He nodded and then left the room completely this time.

#

She gave a sigh at Whistler. "Are you done going through it all?"

He examined on more thing from her bag. "Don't get all patronizing. I have to make sure you're not bringing anything back that could be considered…"

"A time-line mess up?"

He shrugged.

"It's just a bunch of weapons and an extra set of clothes for when I come back with the bleached wonder."

"Looks good. Talk to your kid sister or Xander?"

"Both of them were asleep," she muttered. "It's not like it's going to matter anyway. You're bringing me right back to this point in time, right?"

He grinned. "Right. You ready then?"

"As ready as anyone would be to go back a hundred years in time, give or take a few."

He zipped her bag back together and handed it over.

She slung it over her shoulder. "Let's do it then. I'm not fond of waiting in a graveyard. With my track record something always jumps in at the last moment and screws it all up."

"Good point," he replied as he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Close your eyes if you have to. No need to throw up, right?"

"What?"

And then they were gone with a snap of his fingers, a brilliant flash of light left in their wake.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

"Breathe, Slayer! Breathe!"

He was right. She did feel like she wanted to throw up. She tried to close her eyes, but that just made it worse. She reached out, trying to take hold of something for leverage—something to hold on to. A shoulder fell under her grip and she inhaled slowly, counting, and then exhaled. This process was repeated several times until her vision righted itself and her body quit feeling like it'd been wound through a blender at the speed of light.

"Are you alright, Elizabeth?" said a voice in a light though strong English accent. "Ah... Or perhaps you would prefer Miss Summers?"

"Buffy," she mumbled as she blinked her eyes open again and looked up, straightening herself. Her eyes locked with green ones… and a very young looking Giles? Hazel depths narrowed. "Giles?"

"This is Christopher, Buffy," Whistler said next to her. "Come on, let's sit you down. Just drop the bag."

She didn't argue and dropped it where she stood, opting to let the PTB rep lead her to a small table in the center the room—which appeared a very mint green. Was that wallpaper? She sighed as she sat down and rubbed her temples, leaning forward on the table with her elbows pressed there.

"You ok?" Whistler asked.

"Fine, yes. Just getting my bearings back."

"Care if I light up in here, Kit?"

"Go on ahead."

She could smell cigar smoke filling the air not long after. As the pain left her head she looked across the table at the Watcher. "He looks like Giles…" she said aloud. It was uncanny. But this Giles was younger. The age lines weren't quite in his face. And his hair was long… tied back.

"That would be because he's related to your Watcher."

"How?"

"Can't tell you. Breaks the timeline rules… or something."

She narrowed her eyes on him, almost glaring. He had to be full of shit; the runt reeked of it. But, there was no point in calling him out on it, not in front of Christopher. Instead, she turned her gaze back to Victorian man. "How old are you?"

"Four and twenty."

"Twenty-four," Whistler provided.

_Weird_. "Well… this is going to be… different. What do I call you? Christopher?"

"Kit." He smiled at her.

No beard. Didn't most Victorian men have beards? Did Spike? Or rather, William. She shook her head, trying to get back on track. "So, what do I need to do?" This was half directed at Whistler and half at Kit.

"Are you still feeling off? I was waiting for that," Whistler provided.

She shook her head. "I'm alright now. Just took a minute. I don't think my body liked that very much."

He snorted. "Be glad you're not just a regular human being. Trip woulda killed you."

She didn't respond to that. There were so many negative ways to.

He took a seat adjacent to her and Kit. There was a little ashtray on the center on the table where he flicked some of his ash off the cigar. "So, here's the rundown. Kit here is connected to the council in this time. But, he's not letting them know about you. They're fairly wrapped up in the current Slayer anyway. So, it doesn't matter. And since you're not going to be running around killing vamps or demons… it doesn't really matter."

Buffy looked over at him. "Why would you agree to that?"

"He owes me a favor," Whistler responded on his behalf. "At any rate, kid, here's the deal. You're going to pose as his niece from America. Your parents agreed to have him put you out in society to find you a husband. Obviously, it's just a cover story. Your real goal is to figure out this Spike situation and how to get William separated from Spike."

"First off," she drawled, looking at Kit. "No offense to you or your… era. But, I'm _not_ dressing up like some hoity toity society lady. Can't move around in those skirts. Did it once, won't do it again. Now, hear me out," she went on as Whistler started to interrupt her; she was looking at him, "How do you expect me to get close to him if I'm a girl looking for a husband? For one. And for two, I may not be a genius when it comes to history, but I've _read_ romance novels—historical ones. There are so many rules I don't know that are involved with my sex. So many. I'd blow my cover and piss someone off in five minutes. No one would let me step five feet into their house. I know _that_ much."

Whistler sighed.

Kit frowned. "She has a point."

He looked at her. "What are you suggesting then? Outfit you like a Victorian gentleman?"

"I could go more places that way. Men aren't restricted like women. And it would be a good cover for my strength. Regardless of how my _voice_ sounds, once I demonstrated my prowess no one would question my gender."

"Ah… man." He rubbed his chin before taking a puff off his cigar.

"You want me to get this done quickly? Let me do it my way."

"The rules are far less for men," Kit offered.

"We'd probably have to cut your hair."

She really didn't like the sound of that. "Couldn't I tie it back?"

"You could. But… it's so uncommon for men to have long hair around this time anyway. You'd stand out too much. Kit's odd, but he's not a woman parading as a man either."

"Thank you so much," the Brit bit off.

"Fine, I'll get the hair cut. Hair grows back."

"We'll have to call someone over you trust to fit her out in a wardrobe. And something to bind her breasts comfortably," Whistler said to Kit. "You got anyone you trust with that?"

He smirked. "Who would I be if I didn't?"

"Good. Then you can explain the rest of the details to her. I need to take a leak, old man." Without much else he sauntered off to the door on the far end of the room and left for a while.

Buffy glared at him. She didn't hate Whistler, but he just had this bad habit of being so damned annoying.

"While you're in the house you can be yourself."

"Oh?" she said as she looked over at him.

He nodded. "Just do me a favor and try not to kill anyone."

She blinked at him.

He smiled. "Some of those in my employ are… well, demons. Peaceful, hardworking, but I don't want you surprised."

Her brows rose. "And the council doesn't see anything wrong with that?" God, they were always so up on their horse at her; at least they had been.

"We all have our secrets, dear. But, demons live longer. And, believe it or not, the good ones are far more loyal than your average human being. I give them sanctuary and they keep my life private."

"Not arguing with your methods; just curious. Thanks for the heads up." She waved a hand.

"Now, if we have anyone drop by I'll let you know."

"And if it's unexpected?"

He shrugged. "Then I'd say keep the guise on. But as far as my staff goes? You're fine being honest."

She nodded just as Whistler was coming in. "So, when do I get to see dear William?"

"Tonight," Kit answered her instead.

She blinked. "Don't I need more time than that?"

He shook his head. "I'll be with you. And I plan on giving you everything you need to know before then. Plus, you're an American. They'll forgive a lot of what you do wrong."

"Very true. Well, are you guys squared away?"

"I suppose," Buffy said.

"Then I'll see you later."

"Wait… will you know when to come back and take us home?"

"As you say: Duh." He winked and then flashed out of sight.

Somehow… she had a feeling this was going to be harder that it had been when she first became the Slayer.

#

"That should fit you until my tailor can come in tomorrow and do some proper measurements for your own wardrobe."

Buffy hastily caught the jacket that was thrown at her. She looked down at it for a brief moment—seeing tails—before he tossed more at her. Something that looked like a tie, but not. Socks were next and then pants.

He gave a glance at her after he shut his closet and then drawers. His eyes narrowed. "I'll have to get my valet to cut your hair. He's got some experience with it. Of course, we'll also have to get you something akin to a valet soon." He frowned. "I don't think you want a man dressing you."

She gave him a look. "I _can_ dress myself."

He smirked. "But I doubt you can tie a cravat."

"A what?"

He indicated to his neck the tie that was wrapped around. "You'll need some type of valet to do that, my dear."

She sighed and sat down on the little bench at the end of his bed. "Why does dressing have to be made so complicated?"

He shrugged, assuming that was a question that didn't need much of an answer. "Well, be glad you aren't dressing as a woman. It would take at least an hour to dress you, and then another hour perhaps to do your hair—if one considers complications.

"That was a brilliant suggestion on your part, my dear."

"Thanks, I guess." She was looked up at him. "Are you sure there's nothing I need to really know for tonight?"

"Not much. Just don't dance with anyone until we can get you some proper lessons. But, generally speaking? Men ask woman. So, you've nothing to worry about there. And I'll be with you the whole time."

"What about eating? Don't you people have a fork for everything?"

"This isn't a dinner party, so no. But, we will get into that before we accept any dinner invitations."

"Good to know…" It seemed they wanted to throw her into this really quickly.

"There are a few things to know however…" he started as he looked down at her, hands on his hips. "For one, I should think it's obvious that you must refrain from foul language. Keep things delicate. Even mentioning body parts is considered indecent. It's best to follow the flow of the crowd. And try not to use words from your time period. But, if you do slip up… Might as well just say it was an inside expression from where you grew up."

"Got it." She nodded. "Anything else?"

"We've got a few hours before we have to go. I'll have a bath drawn for you in your room. Then my valet will take care of your hair."

"Sounds good." She stood up and followed him out and down the long hall with her pile of clothes. As she watched him, black material of his jacket stretching over his back, she realized his height and build wasn't too different from her own… hopefully the clothes would work.

"Here we are," he said as he opened a door and stepped aside for her to go in. "It overlooks the garden with a balcony. Not very large… but."

"No, it's perfect," she said, trying to be nice. He was doing a lot for her. She had to wonder what kind of favor he owed Whistler. Well, maybe not _for_ her per say, but for Spike. For the world, if Whistler had it right.

The walls were creams with some faint design and the floors bare wood with several rugs. The bed was a double and covered in some sort of white lace cotton coverings. Four posters and all stained darkly. His home was a little uncongested from what she expected of traditional Victorian. Well, at least what she'd seen. And some of the furniture appeared to be good seventy to eighty years old.

She set the clothes down on the bed as she crossed the semi-large room. It wasn't huge, but it wasn't as small as she would have expected it to be.

"I had it prepared when I was expecting you to dress as a woman. You'd need space for that, trust me." He stepped over to the door a few feet from the bed and pushed it open. "I'll send a maid in to prepare your bath. Until then… well, if you need me I'll be in my study. It's on the other side of the hall, just at the end."

She nodded and smiled. "I'll be fine. Thanks."

He looked at her a moment longer before leaving and for the first time since her little jump… Buffy found herself alone with her thoughts. Which, in her book, was almost always a bad thing.

#

"My Lord, you must come. Lady Regina is having a fit about what she's going to wear tonight. She says it's imperative she have your opinion."

William blinked, looking up from what he'd been working on at his desk as a maid peaked into his open door. "Surely, it can't be all that bad."

"Oh, but it is, My Lord."

He sighed. "Alright. I'll be up then." He stood and rubbed his eyes; the bridge of his nose was pinched before he followed after the made and gave a sigh. As he reached Reggie's door he heard her muttering. Several maids were loitering just outside. As he looked in he could see her dressing maid was holding up two gowns; one was pale green and the other pale pink. Currently, she had on a pale blue one with darker blue ribbons.

"You must pick, My Lady," the young woman said—Margret. "We've only got so much time left."

Without making himself know he glanced between the three gowns. Why on earth would she want his opinion? Surely she knew Lilith was home. He voiced this. "Why don't you ask Lilly?" That was her nickname for their middle sister.

She smiled at him, but then frowned. "I would, but she's taken a nap with Victor. She said she'll come to the party a bit after us."

Ah, yes, his nephew—their nephew. He shook his head and once again looked between the three gowns. He rubbed his chin, thinking. "The blue, Reggie."

"Why?"

"Matches your eyes."

"Good point!"

"Oh, thank heaven," Margret said. "Now we can get your hair done. Come on then, My Lord. Out with you until it's time to go. I'm sure you need to get ready as well. That valet of yours is probably pacing in your room waiting for you now. So don't go back to your study."

He smiled down at Margret just before she shut the door. He considered going back to his work… but, she was probably right. Fredrick hated it when he poured into it, often having to come get him right in the middle of another line.

He turned around and headed that way, maids dispersing back to work as he did so.

"I was just about to come get you," he said as William came in through the door. "I've got a few things pulled out for you to choose from there on the bed."

Fredrick was as tall as him, and built in much the same way. Unlike William however, his didn't keep a completely clean face; preferred to keep a moustache like a lot of other Englishmen. His hair was also dark, but not quite as dark as his sister's. Reggie's was almost black.

He stared down at the three suits and rubbed his chin. All brownish tweed… He always wore that; he was wearing it now. So then, why didn't it feel _right_? "Do I have anything black, Fredrick?"

His valet blinked at him. "Black?"

"Yes, it's an evening party. Black would be more appropriate, wouldn't it?"

He looked at him as though he's grown a third eye.

"Is there something wrong?"

"I'm just… surprised, My Lord…. That's all. I'd suggested it to you before, but—."

"Well, I'm taking your advice now. Do we have time for you to get that ready? Something with… tails, preferably."

Fredrick looked like he'd died and gone to heaven—whatever that meant for a valet. "Oh, yes of course! Plenty of time." And then he went about looking through his wardrobe and drawers, saying things Williams couldn't quite hear even if he were paying complete attention.

Why did he want to change his style so suddenly? Tweed was the clothing for scholars. He was a scholar. Had always wanted to be taken seriously as one…

It was a mystery. But, apparently one that made his valet act like a schoolboy in love. Even if he changed his mind he didn't have the heart to upset the man now. Perhaps Cicely would appreciate the change. No… perhaps she wouldn't. Yes, that was right, he remembered. The maid he'd sent out to ask about her had come back, telling him her mother had moved them out to the country. Her servants in their London home were saying Lady Warwick was just distraught over how unsafe the city was becoming. Which, was odd. The season was just starting… and as he knew Cicely still needed a husband. Perhaps she'd come back in a week or two when it really got into full swing.

He could only hope. Should he?

"My Lord, how does this work for you?"

William shook his head out of his own thoughts and looked down at what his valet had readied for him. He smiled, the expression crawling across his face.

"Perfect, Fredrick."

"My Lord?"

He looked over at him and a single brow rose.

"Do you mind if I speak a little freely?" There was a sense of nervousness about him.

"I suppose that's alright."

"Well, My Lord… if you don't mind me saying… well… that is… I wanted you to know whatever change has overcome you, My Lord… it's a good thing."

"What do you mean?"

"There's this confidence about you."

Was there? He didn't feel any different… did he? "Thank you, Fredrick."

"You're welcome, My Lord."

"Well, let's go ahead and get dressed. I'm not sure I could live down my sisters getting down before me. Although, at this rate it's looking that way."

His valet just smiled, saying nothing as he helped him pull off his jacket.


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Buffy felt more than watched as Kit's valet cut, snipped, and sliced her long blond locks off. The tendrils floated along her skin, tickling her before they fluttered to the floor. She supposed she should feel some sort of… sadness at losing them; however, she just didn't. She felt no remorse over it at all, but she couldn't say she felt anything akin to liberation either. Who knew; she wouldn't until she looked in the mirror.

"Keep your eyes closed. I'd not like to get any hair in them, miss."

"Still, it's coming along beautifully, Buffy," she heard Kit say. And she had to reiterate how _odd_ it was to hear a Giles-like voicing sound so young. "How are you going to style it? Something pulled back… a part on the side, or middle?"

She suddenly thought of Spike and his slicked back bleach blond; it didn't appeal—not on her. "Side part probably."

"I'll keep that in mind as I finish. We're nearly there now."

So, she sat there, eyes closed as she tolerated her head being moved around like she was a bobble toy on the dash of a car. And when she was certain the waiting would never cease he pulled his hands away and stilled.

"Well, I think that does it. Christopher?"

"Yes, very good, James. A little oil in the right places and she'll be set. Have you sent that message to your sister for me?"

"I have. She'll be here tomorrow. It's a good thing she lives with my mother; it's not far from here at all."

"Buffy," she heard Kit say. "You can open your eyes now."

Which was good; she was about to open her mouth to interrupt them and ask. As she lifted her lids and stared across at the mirror James ran his hands through hair one more time, touching up a part on her left side with the comb.

She stared at herself for a while. She'd always had a natural sort of volume and wave to her hair. And while she didn't have a clue about Victorian hair—specifically men's—she'd seen a few photographs in school. It was quite short around her neck and ears; what would be her sideburns were clipped to near nonexistence. However, on the top it was a little longer; the volume in it gave it some height, although not too much. Without her make-up she'd never considered how her strong her jaw was… This could work.

Did she feel librated? It felt unusual not having all that hair falling on her neck, grazing her back in a ponytail, or to feel the weight of it at all on the crown of her head. But, it didn't feel bad. She couldn't deny that the artsy side of her—something she'd always considered her mother in her more than anything else—longed to see how she would look in the full guise.

"Thank you, James," she found herself saying as she looked at the valet in the reflection of the glass.

He smiled brightly, brown eyes alight. As he did so, the moustache on his face tugged. "Not a problem at all." He looked over at Kit. "I'll go ready your clothes for tonight. Then I assume you want me to return to do the finishing touches on the lady's attire?"

Kit nodded.

"I shall see you later, my dear," James said to her before leaving the room.

With a sigh she stood and pulled the sheet off of her. This she dropped on the floor with the hair pile. Earlier, Kit assured her that a maid would be in the sweep it up. That was something she would have to get use to—not cleaning up after herself. Here, in the midst of the life of those considered upper class, people picked up after you, they dressed you, bathed you if you wanted, combed and styled your hair, made you dinner, everything. She couldn't fathom it. Even the few times she'd dared to go to Cordy's house—when her parents still had the money—she had picked up after herself. But here, in Victorian England (according to Kit), you didn't. You didn't because you could afford to expect someone else to do it; your life was centered around doing other things—whatever those were in a place lacking television, internet, amusements parks, and CDs.

She stared down at the suit she'd laid out on the bed after her bath. At least they had plumbing; well, Kit's house did. She'd been seriously worried about hot water from a faucet when she'd gotten here. Although, he had warned her against using it too much as it was a waste on water. He told her to instead to use the sink to soap up and rinse. While it wasn't _home_, it was at least good to know she wasn't expected to go around smelling like a pig.

"You'll do fine tonight."

She'd forgotten he was there as she'd lost herself in her own mind. It was something her friends had tried to be nice about for a while: those long minutes she went on saying nothing at all. With her luck, it was generally right in the middle of a conversation.

She smiled and looked over at him, one hand wrapped around a bedpost as she leaned into it. "I suppose I'll have to."

"It'll be good for you," he assured her, hands clasped behind his back. "We'll be sure to keep our distance from most people and watch. And that won't be hard at tonight's event."

"Oh?"

"Most of my peers refer to it at the season's true start. The combination of the Duchess of Finlake spending a lot of her husband's money on it, and that she holds it in their large city home… well… Prinny could have never done better, I assure you."

She wasn't sure who Prinny was, but Buffy got the picture. She nodded. So, it was a big party. And a big party basically meant she could go unnoticed. Something that might not have been so easy were she choosing to go as a woman.

"Will you need anything else before I leave you to dress?"

Buffy shook her head.

He smiled at her, eyes closing. "Then I'll send a maid up to clean for you… and well… leave you to it." The door shut behind him with a click and Buffy found herself turning to the clothes before her. She bit her lip.

"Here goes nothing…" she muttered, grabbing the hem of her shirt and tossing it off.

#

"And you hair, My Lord…?"

William stared hard at his features in the looking glass. It was all foppish curl around the edges, and if he were to be perfectly honest—a little too long. He looked boyish; it wasn't bad. But now, even after years of being contented with how he passed himself off, he wasn't so sure it felt right to him anymore.

"Trim it and slick it back," he said suddenly, still watching his reflection with hard eye.

"Are you certain…?"

Blue eye tilted towards Fredrick as he shifted in his chair. "Positive."

He didn't see the small smile on his valet's lips before he turned back to the mirror. In a moment he was covered in a cloth and being told to close his eyes so that he could work. He relaxed into his seat and didn't say another word. However, in his own head he dove deeply.

Confidence? He didn't feel any different. Granted, there were things about himself he was changing; although, who didn't change? Certainly, being the man he'd been for over ten years wasn't helping him when it came to Cicely. He was tired of being brow beat and tossed around. Crying in a corner, or on his sister's breast (as it had been recently), wasn't going to assist him in any way. There was hardly a reason to go around challenging anyone, but he didn't have to let life run him over. Something told him he didn't have to.

"I'll slick it back now," he heard Fredrick say just before he felt his fingers running through his hair and across his scalp. Then came the comb; it swiped through a few times before everything stilled altogether.

"There you are, My Lord." He pulled the cloth off and stepped away. "I think the effect might be better if you were to look in the larger looking glass."

So he stood, fully clothed and hair complete, and stared into the long reflective surface that produced his image.

He stilled.

With the half curled mess off of his brow, brought back and trimmed one could actually see his face; one could see his high cut cheek bones, the definition of his brow, and the cold warmth in his eyes.

It was snug; his clothing was snug and form fitting. The black flattered him rather than drowned him like the former sea of brown did. The tailcoat was not too tight, but rather just loose enough to be stylish and stand out at the same time. His slacks were the same, just barely loose enough to allow for sitting and comfortable movement. The double breasted vest beneath wasn't too dark or too bright; satin crimson just barely caught the light in the room.

"Your hat and gloves, My Lord?"

He jolted out of his reverie and smiled warmly at Fredrick. "Thank you." He took the aforementioned items.

"You'll wow them tonight, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Perhaps," William agreed and he slid his gloves on and made way for the door, top hat under his arm. "I shouldn't be too late. That is unless Reggie gets wrapped up." He opened the door and looked back at him.

Fredrick chuckled. "Don't mind me, My Lord. You know I'll be here when you come in, just as I always am."

"Reggie notwithstanding." He rolled his eyes and left, making way for the stairs where he could already hear the hum of voices from his sisters and mother. As he came down the stairs however, there was a distinct hush that came over the three most important women in his life.

Reggie's eye's bugged out in a very unladylike manner; Lilith smiled and touched her lips; and his mother appeared star struck.

"Wow… feel up for a change, did you?" Reggie said.

"It does look that way," Lilith said, still smiling. "Very dashing, Will."

He opened his mouth to respond to her but stopped short as he heard a sniffle. Blue eyes shifted to his mother just as she wiped away a tear. Her lips upturned crookedly.

"Mother?" he asked softly as he came to her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

She shook her head and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "I'm fine. You just… you look just like your father." She smiled up at him and her laugh lines creased further. Her eye closed.

He smiled back and took her in a hug. "I can go change if you—."

"Don't you dare!" she cried out as her body jerked away from his. Bright eyes narrowed on his—his that were so full of laughter. "…You shouldn't tease your mother," she admonished, though there was little strength behind it.

He laughed softly and kissed her cheek before he placed his hat on his head. "I can only assume we're ready?" This was directed at Reggie.

She grinned and nodded, head of brown-black curls bouncing as a maid helped her into her evening coat. "Very." She turned to Lilith. "Don't be too long. I don't want to do it alone, you know."

"You won't; you'll have Will."

"It's not the same!" she hissed.

William sighed. "May we go? The carriage is waiting, and the festivities with it."

Lilith hugged and kissed them both before they slipped out the door. "Perhaps no longer that a half an hour. Alright?"

"I hope so."

"Patience is a virtue!" their mother called to her youngest daughter just as the carriage door snapped shut behind them both. "Children…" she muttered.

Lilith smiled.

#

Bumpy, bumpy, and more bumpy; Buffy was convinced—carriages were _not_ comfortable. She was convinced that if she had to travel more than an hour in one her back would break… or something around that area.

"Are you alright?" Kit asked from where he sat across from her.

Buffy found herself adjusting her top hat as she frowned. She glared down at her gloves. "Is there a reason I have to keep these on?"

"The hat you'll remove once you go inside the home; someone will be there to take it and your coat. The gloves however, must stay on," he explained. "It's expected you wear a hat and gloves outside your home. And you should always wear gloves around women, regardless of where you're at."

She blinked. "Why?"

"Because it's considered indecent for a man's bare skin to touch a woman's he is not related or married to."

"Ah," she replied, a little surprised he didn't appear put off or bothered by the fact that she didn't do any of these things her time. "More things I'll have to get use to."

"I'm sure it's very different where you come from."

She looked up at him, trying not to slouch—as that was also considered bad. "Very. We don't wear gloves unless it's a formal party; even then it's no big deal. We wear hats indoors if we want, and a lot of us don't wear them outside."

"You appear to wear a lot less all around."

She quirked a smirk. "Well… it's a different time. We're not really hung up on religion; not all of us anyway."

"And women regularly wear men's clothes."

"For the most part." She sat back and looked out the window, watching as London's nightlife passed them by. "And we work jobs that people here only consider men's."

"Such as?"

"Lawyers, business, bankers…uh…" she trailed off as she tried to think of men-only jobs in this time and place. "Doctors."

"Interesting. And it's not considered indecent?"

"Nope. I mean, men and woman aren't really past the whole sexist thing… but, we've made leaps."

Suddenly the carriage lurched; it stopped.

"I do believe we've arrived," Kit said as he looked out the glass pane and then over at her. "Now remember, your name is Darien Clarke. You're my nephew—."

"Through your late sister Margret who died five years ago along with her husband. I had no other family in America and you only just found me with some extensive investigating. Yes, I know." She smiled at him. "Shall I recite everything else you've told me I need to know for tonight?"

"No."

"Cool. Then I'm good to go."

The door the carriage opened just as Kit spoke, "You really must be cautious of your language."

"I know, I know," she muttered, stepping out after him.

She looked up beyond the brick steps and towards the door. It was open and several people were going in. Already, she could hear the next carriage pulling after her, people milling out behind her as she followed Kit up and eventually into the home. Before she could so much as say a word someone was taking her hat and coat.

"Come on then, we've got to have them announce us and then I'll introduce you to our hosts. After which, we're essentially free to watch and wander."

She wasn't sure what he meant by that, but continued to follow him into the main area… or lobby? Ballroom? There were stairs at the top and people milling about there. A stout man who dressed like a servant was saying names aloud as couples and the like took to going down into the party.

Suddenly, it was her name and Kit's and then they were going down the steps as well. She felt like some kind of ball being rolled between children in some sort of game. She took a deep breath through nose and counted, slowly, as she'd done time and time again since coming home. She didn't have time to feel suffocated.

Instead of focusing on the people, so many of them, she looked around at the room. The high ceilings, the lighting—electric at that, the elaborate fabrics that hung from windows, the dancers… The music coming from the band set up in a corner of the room.

"Ah, Lady Finlake. So good to see you."

Buffy jerked back to find Kit leaning over a woman's hand; she was draped in expensive evening wear. Jewels hung from her neck and ears, and on her head sat a band of them. She appeared perhaps five or so years older than Kit.

"And you as well, Lord Blackwood," she replied softly and pulled her hand away as he released it. Her eyes drifted to Buffy. "And I see you've brought someone new to us, My Lord."

"Ah yes. This is my nephew from America. Darien Clarke."

Buffy mimicked Kit's earlier actions, smiling. "You host a wonderful party," Buffy said carefully, trying very hard not to throw any slang in there. Which, for her… was a trial.

"Thank you. How kind." She smiled back. "Enjoying your stay in London, I take it?"

"Very much."

"It must be very different from your home. Where are you from?"

"California."

"My, my! I hear it's absolutely vulgar there! How do you survive in the wild of the American West?"

Buffy wasn't sure what to say to that. "Carefully," she said finally, almost making it a question.

It must have been amusing because Lady Finlake laughed softly behind her fan. "You have a very interesting nephew, My Lord," she said to Kit. "You must bring him along to my next event. The one in two weeks."

"We'll see how scheduling permits for us, but we'll do our best."

"Very good."

Without much else, they bid their goodbyes and Kit led her away to the refreshments table, where oddly enough it was less crowded and little quiet.

"You did well," he murmured. "Much better than I imagined. She didn't have a clue. And believe me, I was worried about your height being a problem."

"You and me both," she said, her voice soft so no one would hear. "Do you know if… _William_ will be here?" Don't say Spike, she told herself. Not Spike. William.

"He should be arriving soon if he isn't already. His younger sister is supposedly having her coming out tonight."

"Coming out?"

He handed her a glass of punch before going to make it own cup. "Her introduction into society and as a young woman eligible for marriage."

"Oh. Right. What you wanted me to do."

"Quite."

"I guess I'll have to wander around and find him."

"On your own?" he raised a brow at her. "That might not be a wise idea. Not yet. I'll help you look for him."

"I'd rather speak to him alone my first time. Or do I need an introduction for that?"

Kit frowned. "Not entirely…. no."

"Then I'll meet you half way. I won't wander on my own till we find him. Alright?"

Kit sighed, wondering if all Slayers were this determined to neglect good sense. "Very well."

* * *

**AN :: **Not sure I liked the ending for this chapter. It hangs a little. But, at any rate, if you feel up to it, review me. It's not required, but always appreciated.


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

A swath of pastels, browns, and blacks spun around the floor; in the distance came a herald of strings and piano. It wove through the moving crowd of voices and laughter, going in one ear and right out another.

Pale lips enclosed over the edge of a clear glass; yellowish liquid disappeared betwixt and beyond. It curled down his throat as he pulled the cup away, bubbling as it danced all the way down to his stomach. Cold blue orbs stared at the champagne glass; it rotated in his hand, swirling the sweet stuff like a miniature whirlpool.

"You look positively bored, Will."

His gaze pulled away from the drink and his hand lowered. He blinked once and turned to look down at Reggie. She was smiling brightly, making the ringlets that danced around her features all the more… fitting. He wondered if she knew how lucky she was to be so beautiful and to bear a kind heart. He would have told her _don't lose it_. But, then it would have turned the moment to something melancholy. So, instead he smiled just barely and stilled his swirling hand, saying, "I'll never be bored, Reg, at least not with you around. Now, when you get married, that will be another matter entirely. I'm sure I'll be bored to tears then."

She laughed softly, inciting just the response he imagined. "That's probably true. Although, I will say this: finding a young man to fit my criteria will be difficult."

"Oh, you mean the sort that doesn't mind letting his wife practice her aim with her finest pistol?" he said just softly enough.

"Oh, hush you… A girl can dream." She glanced about as if afraid someone heard him, fanning herself lightly.

He chuckled lightly and took a sip from his long stem glass.

"Oh, Lily is here! Finally!"

William shifted left, following Reggie's line of sight. He kept his smile in place as he took another sip, stuffed a hand in his pants' pocket, and watched her drift through the crowd towards them.

"I hope I'm not too late," she said a little breathlessly, fanning herself. "My, my, it _is_ hot in here. So many bodies. The Finlake has really outdone herself this year." She glanced around, eyes briefly touching on the dancers. "Well," she began looking over at the duo. "Why don't I take Reggie off your hands so you can wander a bit, hm?"

"Yes, please," Reggie said at once.

"Well, I know when I'm not wanted," William announced with a grin. He gave each woman a kiss on her temple, much to their huffing about his comment, before he wandered off into the crowd. "Do have fun."

"Not to worry, we will," Lilith said just before he was out of sight.

He shifted through people talking in crowds, gathered along the walls, avoided eyes that were drawn his way… the whispers.

"Is that…"

"William the… well you know…"

"…bloody."

"Yes… exactly."

"Horrible poet."

"Dressed very differently tonight… My…"

"…won't do him any good. Money trouble, if you excuse my vulgarity."

His jaw flexed as he increased his pace and ignored it, taking the stairs to the second ballroom level quickly. He set his drink in the hand of a servant offering drinks and continued on, ignoring the looks of curiosity as he took another in place of his last with a smoothness he didn't even notice himself.

No, it was good he wasn't with Reggie and Lilith. In all likelihood it would do more damage than good to his sister's prospects for a proposal. He stilled as he reached the top, stepping away from the stairs and looking down. Already he could see someone filling out her dance card, and another. With her beauty, despite not having much of a dowry to offer, Reggie would do as well as Lilith had done. Still… he hated that he couldn't offer more for them.

He needed air.

William turned and made way to cross the distance to the open balcony just along the back wall. The curtains wisped in the wind, white folds curling in the breeze. It felt cooler up here, so he was certain it would feel much better out there. Sweat was already starting to gather under his cravat; he resisted the urge to tug on it.

"William! There you are!" He stopped mid-step and tilted his head in the direction of his name.

"Join us!"

He sighed as she spied Lord Hastings waving him over; the lithe man, wrapped in finery he couldn't begin to imagine affording, was grinning ear to ear. The action tugged at his moustache. He was surrounded by a small gaggle of women and men who were also dressed similarly. A few he recognized.

Honestly, he would have rather ignored them, but good breeding and manners dictated he go over now that he'd obviously noticed them. Anything else would just bring poor gossip on his family.

With another sigh he wandered over, preparing for the worst, smiling tightly. "Hastings," he murmured, stopping next to him.

"So, we were wondering about the party last evening. Just talking about it, actually. Heard you were there, William. You did hear about the… _well_, you know. Ghastly stuff. I can tell you weren't there long."

"Heavens no," a woman added. "He wouldn't be here with _us_ otherwise, Lord Hastings."

William watched silently as she took a sip from her glass, all the while idly playing with a bracelet on her wrist.

"Very true, My Lady. Very true." Beady eyes turned back to William. "You didn't see anything out of the ordinary before you left, did you? We're all so curious."

"No, I'm afraid not. It's not the sort of thing I generally like to read about," he admitted.

"Certainly not. Our William much prefers poetry, isn't that true?" A woman he did recognize said—Lady Vinton. Young and still on the market, but a tongue that could slice a man in half. Got her in trouble more than once, or so he'd heard. Her father's money would get her a husband though, no doubt. He was richer than the king, by all accounts.

"Quite true!" Hastings added, clapping him on the back. William tensed, but he didn't appear to notice. "Won't you lift our spirits with some verse then?"

It would be so easy to walk away, really. So easy to make an excuse and leave, truth be told. But, they'd all know the reality—he'd be running. And for some reason he couldn't stomach that tonight. His throat was tight, his chest constricted painfully, and he felt the horrifying urge to do anything but speak… and yet he couldn't leave. He couldn't speak, but he couldn't leave.

"Hastings! So good to see you. Excuse my interruption, but I was getting bored. And you seemed like just the chap to assist with that inconvenience."

There was laughter from the group as someone stepped between William and Hastings, not blocking the way. William looked over, blinking a few times.

"Lord Blackwood! How good to see you."

"And you as well, Hastings. Come, let me introduce you to my nephew, Darian Clarke."

"You're an uncle? Still young, aren't you?" He chuckled.

"Margret was older, and you know it."

"True, true. Good to meet you."

"And you as well, My Lord."

Blue eyes snapped, locking in place. Blonde hair fell across his face, gently touching the ovular shape that dropped to a cutting angle, a defiant chin. Those eyes were bright—green as emeralds. Lips curled into a smile and he felt his own eyes narrow.

And then he jerked as those eyes locked on his, brows raising.

"Darian Clarke," he said, voice far too airy for a man, as he held out a hand. "And you are?"

#

"Are you sure you don't want a drink?"

Buffy sighed. "Very. Right now I'd like to find you-know-who." Her gloved hand slid along the railing as she took one step at a time to the upper level. Her and Kit both had spent the better part of a half an hour trying to find Spike with no such luck. At some point they'd spotted his two sisters in the distance; Kit had recognized them. But, no Spike to be seen. They would have asked if they knew where he was, but Kit told her that's not how things were done. If you didn't know someone you generally got an introduction from someone that did, unless you had a flattering purpose… such as asking a young woman to dance. But even then, a proper introduction was better.

And Buffy was not about ask either of them to dance. She was totally not ready for that.

As they both reached the top of the stairs and moved to the left, Buffy turned to Kit. "How about I—."

"Very true, My Lady. Very true. You didn't see anything out of the ordinary before you left, did you? We're all so curious."

"No, I'm afraid not. It's not the sort of thing I generally like to read about."

Buffy blinked; she knew that voice. She turned around completely and her eyes locked on a crowd of people not too far away.

"Certainly not. Our William much prefers poetry, isn't that true?" A woman said to someone; Buffy could just barely make out the side of her face and a Cheshire smile that curled her lips… cruelly?

"Quite true! Won't you lift our spirits with some verse then?"

And then a few people shifted aside just enough that Buffy could see him, finally. Her heart caught in her throat at the shaken distress in his clear blue eyes. How often had she seen it? How many times had she looked down at him, curl in her lip, watching that heartbreak—fear—so evidenced in the prison of his gaze?

She took a step forward, not wholly realizing she had been until Kit grabbed her shoulder and stopped her.

"A moment. We'll do this the right way. Come on." And so he led her around the crowd, to William's side. She could see the tight curling of a fist from a distance, the shake in it as they drew closer and Kit brought them right into the fray, talking to a man who went by Hastings. She couldn't stop looking _at_ him; it took everything in her to appear sharp as she shook Hastings' hand and smiled.

But those eyes were on her; she could feel them, knew them so well already. They burned through her, cut like a molten velvet touch that felt too good to be bad. She resisted the urge to exhale deeply and instead counted, doing so slowly. Carefully, her eyes turned to his and she raised her brows.

"Darian Clarke." She held out her hand. "And you are?"

He hesitated for a moment; she knew he had. There wasn't much about Spike she didn't know or understood by now when he did it. Eventually though, he took her hand and shook it with a decent amount of pressure.

"William Pratt, Lord Broderick," he supplied in response, voice always drawling it out.

She narrowed her eyes at that, releasing his hand.

"So, what of it, Blackwood? What do _you_ think of these murders? The ones at the house of the Honorable Lord Wesley's last night? Hm? I'm sure you've been told."

"Yes, actually… I have. But not much; probably not anymore than you have, Hastings."

"Still, scary stuff. Some of the _ton_ are leaving the season over it. Awful. Some girls may have to wait another season, if this mess keeps up."

"I've heard, yes," she heard Kit say as he placed his hands behind his back. "But, I'm quite sure we have better things to amuse ourselves with. I'm _quite_ certain the ladies have no interest in such a topic."

"Quite not," one woman agreed, fanning herself as if to emphasize this point.

"We _were_ discussing poetry," another lady said. The one with the Cheshire grin from earlier. Her cold eyes were on Spike, Buffy noted. "Don't you have anything for us, William?" Were these people his friends? She remembered well enough that people did not use first name unless they had permission… right? She couldn't be. Girl had bitch written all over her.

Buffy glanced at him just barely; there it was again, that horrified look from earlier. It was all in his eyes. And everyone was staring at him… She frowned and looked back at Cheshire Smile. It was like Willow and Cordelia all over again on her first day at Sunnydale High.

"Do you write?" she asked him suddenly, cutting the strain off in his eyes almost immediately.

He blinked as he met her gaze, but only two or three times. "I ah… yes, sometimes."

"Then perhaps I could get your opinion on something…?" She was looking at him now, trying not to be selfish as she saved him, trying not to strain her own heart on more than she was allowed to have. No, she was doing this to see if something was there… behind the blue of his eyes; something Spike.

He was looking at her curiously again, unsure. "I'll help if I can."

Buffy rubbed her chin, ignoring the stares from the expectant group and she considered the words in her head… trying to remember it all, perhaps a bar or two would be alright…

She met his eyes again.

"I died," she said softly, strongly, "so many years ago." There was a little pause before she began again, poignant as she held his gaze. "But you can make me feel, like it isn't so. Why you come to be with me, I think I finally know," she almost whispered, looking for the spark. "You're scared," she said with some emphasis, "Ashamed of what you feel. You can't tell the ones you love, you know they couldn't deal… Whisper in a dead man's ear… That doesn't make him real." She swallowed as she was certain something in his breathing changed; she could feel it. "That's great," she went on almost playfully, "but I don't want to play. Because being with you touches me more than I can say. But since I'm only dead to you? I'm saying stay away.

"And let me rest in peace…"

She didn't heart the quiet, the serenity; she didn't feel the tension beyond what she held in his gaze, beyond what she could _feel_ between them and always had. What she wasn't going to ever have for herself.

"That was… beautiful," one woman said. "Did you write it?"

She kept her searching hazel eyes locked on his, not yet ready to break it. "No… a good friend of mine did. Someone dear to me…" Carefully, she pulled her gaze away from his and towards the group, smiling softly. "It's good to know someone likes it."

"Quite," William said next to her. "It was… very good." His voice was almost a whisper.

"So, Hastings, will I see tomorrow at the tables?" Kit took hold of the group conversation, cutting of Buffy and William altogether.

_Good work, Kit._

She looked over at William. "Perhaps you'd like to step outside with me? Talk about it further?" Her voice was softer this time, under the radar of the group.

The corner of his mouth curled up. "I'd love to."

They both quietly turned away from the group and made way towards the open doors.

Kit's glanced over briefly, taking a sip from his drink, smiling slightly just before going back to the conversation. She was smooth; he'd give her that.

"Clarke—."

"You can call me Dare," he interrupted as they stepped beyond the open threshold. "I'm not really into the whole stuffy upper crust society… rules."

William stopped and put his hands into his pockets; he watched the back of the shorter man. He _was_ shorter… perhaps a good six inches or so, give or take. "We barely know each other."

"Does it matter?"

"It should." He watched him lean forward into the railing, hands placed some distance apart. As he did so, William was almost certain there was a smile he couldn't see forming on the blonde's face.

He found himself narrowing his eyes. Caution filled him at this American stranger for some unknown reason. There was a tension, like oil rolling against water, inevitably unable to join happily. Still, at the same time he felt a level of immediate kinship.

Impressions were an odd thing, and each one was felt in different ways. In William's case, most people were either honest about who they were or weren't; he was either good enough or wasn't. More often than not, he just wasn't.

But, the impressions were always unique. You could sometimes tell right away when you met someone if you were going to get on well or not—if you were going to be immediate bosom buddies or instant enemies.

He couldn't decide with Darian Clarke.

"I don't think it should," he finally said, turning to look at him.

If there had been a smile it was gone.

"Pointless rules are pointless," he continued.

William raised a brow. "You sound a bit like a rebel, or perhaps a philosopher."

"Maybe both?" He did smile then.

"Perhaps," William allowed with a tiny curve of his lips. There was a pause between the two of them as he stepped forward and to his right side. "You like poetry?"

"It's not my th—." He stumbled over his words, William noted.

His brow rose again. "It's not your…?"

He sighed, smiling. "Sorry, I'm trying to keep from talking a bunch of slang. I hear that's a bad thing around here."

"I thought you didn't care about the rules."

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "It's for my uncle. Family. You get it, right?"

"I _understand_, yes." He smiled broader now.

The blond winced. "Yeah, understand…"

"You're bad at this."

"Very."

William chuckled.

"I don't hate it, no. I'm just not a fan most of the time."

"Of poetry," William confirmed as he sat down on the stone railing. "Then what was that about?" He motioned beyond the balcony doors where he could still faintly see most of the group still clucking away.

Darian's smile was gone as he followed his line of sight, but by now William was watching him again for an answer. Something changed in his green eyes; something flashed there. Something…. Guilt?

"I know a bully when a see one," he said, voice quiet, though not a whisper.

There was a short pause between them. William, because he was thinking deeply into that comment, and Darian (he hypothesized) because he was lost in his own head for a moment.

Green eyes met his blue ones. There was a level of falseness in his smile that traced a path into his eyes as well. "I'm new around here—obviously. I need a friend." He watched him quietly for a moment. "You look like you need one too."

"You won't be well liked for that choice," William felt the need to inform him.

"I'm not use to being popular or well-liked anyway."

"Somehow I doubt that." Where it had come from he wasn't certain, but it felt right to say it. "You look like the sort who's always surrounded by loved ones."

"There's a loneliness in that too, William," he said softly, bright green hues locking on his in an odd earnest way that made him feel like he was looking right through him.

He blinked unsteadily a few times and stepped back as the short man stood and came towards him.

Darian didn't seem to notice if anything was wrong, or if he was shaken a little. No, he just stopped a few inched away from him. It was enough space to be considered comfortable to any two men talking in private to themselves.

He was looking up at him, bright greens still as earnest as ever. "I'm nothing special, you know."

_Liar_, a voice said in his head.

"I don't care what they think about us spending time together, your _friends_. Unless you do?"

"They're not my friends," he replied instantly, coolly.

"Can we be? Not the, hello-and-how's-the-weather kind. More like the kind you're honest with. You know? I need that here with all the vultures running around. You?"

He'd wanted that for a while; he'd wanted it with Cecily. Growing up he'd been forced together with other children at the park and they'd gotten on well enough, but a lot of things had changed after his father had passed away and the money dwindled slowly out of sight. His uniquely wallflower personality made him out to be an embarrassment; bad poetry just made it worse.

People feigned civility with him to the extent that it was considered polite; carefully guised within conversation was all the cattiness they never thought he understood. Or if they did, they didn't care.

A real friend was something he could never recall having, he realized as he looked down at Darian's eloquent features that were too cut to be feminine and yet too soft to be masculine.

He sighed. "If you're up for the embarrassment, sure. I've no reason to say no."

When he smiled William blamed the happiness he felt on a new friendship, a new page in his life he'd never experienced before.

* * *

**AN :: **It felt awkward, the above conversation. I'm not sure if I'm entirely happy with it. But then, I never expect this sort of situation to be anything but awkward for them both. So, perhaps in that sense it's appropriate.

**An anonymous reader informed me** that they weren't happy with Spike having sisters because it wasn't canon. So, first, when I explain myself here I'm not defending my writing. People are free to take from my prose what they will. If you enjoy it great, if not, I'm alright too. As a writer, all criticism is taken into consideration. Some of it hurts, some of it is pointless, and there is some of it still that is both hurtful and amazingly helpful to me. With that being said, this fanfiction is a** rewrite** of an old fic I wrote back in… well, before I knew Spike's past with his mother. So, this is a rewrite of the original, which had these two OC sisters in it.

So, at any rate, I posted this here because the reader didn't give me any contact information and I wanted to tell them why Spike has two sisters, just as I did in the first chapter author note.

At any rate, thank you for reading.

—Blade


End file.
